Off the Record by Dolores Gordon-Smith

discovered very shortly in any event, sir,’ volunteered the sergeant. ‘His wife should have had afternoon tea with him.’
    ‘His wife?’ said the doctor. He glanced round the room with a puzzled frown. ‘Did she have another room? She obviously wasn’t staying in this one.’
    ‘She’s not staying here at all, sir. Apparently Mr Dunbar and his wife were separated.’
    ‘I had her escorted home,’ said Rackham. ‘She lives in Kensington. Her son lives with her and she says he should be home from work when she arrives, so she won’t be alone. She was pretty upset, poor woman.’ He saw the doctor’s expression. ‘And no, before you get up in arms in her defence, I didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t think she was up to answering any.’
    The doctor subsided. ‘That’s very restrained of you. Is she a suspect?’
    Rackham frowned. ‘Technically, yes. Actually?’ He shrugged. ‘I doubt it. I’ll speak to her tomorrow. What I do need is someone who saw him this afternoon. Sergeant Butley, can you start making enquiries of the hotel staff ? I’ve already seen the chambermaid, of course, but if you find any other witnesses, let me know and I’ll interview them as soon as I can.’
    A knock sounded on the door and Constable Flynn looked into the room. ‘The photographer’s here, sir.’
    ‘Tell him to wait a few minutes,’ said Rackham. ‘I won’t be long.’
    He waited until Sergeant Butley and Doctor Morris had left the room, then walked to the window and lent against the sill, looking round the room. He wanted some time to himself to put his thoughts in order.
    Andrew Dunbar; it was odd to think it was only a couple of days ago he had discussed Andrew Dunbar with Jack. That conversation was a real bit of bad luck for someone. Even if Butley hadn’t spotted the faked suicide, Rackham would have smelt a rat as soon as he heard Dunbar’s name. Rackham looked at the body lying stiffly across the desk and pursed his lips. It now seemed more likely than ever that the whole truth about the Stoke Horam suicides hadn’t come to light.
    He stood beside the body, his head tilted to one side. Dunbar was well dressed, in a conventional morning suit of striped trousers and dark coat. His clothes gave very little idea of what he was like. He frowned. Hotel rooms were essentially anonymous, and that, speaking as a policeman, annoyed him. However, even here Dunbar must have left some imprint of his personality on the room.
    He walked round the room, pausing at the heavy oak wardrobe. Inside were two leather suitcases stamped with the initials A.W.D. and, hanging from the rail, a collection of suits and coats. Rackham noted the tailor’s name and shrugged. Nothing there, as far as he could see. The drawers revealed, as expected, gloves, ties and collars. On the bedside table were two magazines, The Windsor Magazine and – this made Rackham smile – On The Town containing a story by Jack Haldean. A pill box quickened his pulse for a moment but proved to contain nothing more exciting than Doctor Trotter’s patent liver pills. Skirting round the bed, and noting that Andrew Dunbar favoured an old-fashioned nightshirt rather than pyjamas, he passed by the washstand and came to the desk under the window.
    It was nearly impossible to look at anything but the body, but Rackham dragged his attention to the desk. A pamphlet forbiddingly entitled The Proceedings of the Otorhinolaryngological Society caught his eye. Otor . . . What on earth was that? No wonder Dunbar apparently preferred Jack Haldean for light reading. An open leather folder was at the rear of the desk, containing a few sheets of paper which Rackham turned over, carefully holding them by the edges. They contained lists of figures and some names that he recognized. Lewis, Carrington and Otterbourne’s, the gramophone makers. Once again, the Stoke Horam suicides came to mind. He was glad he had looked at the Stoke Horam files only yesterday. Because